Category : poetry

Reading Brecht in Berlin

The tattered cord can again become knotted. It holds but it is torn. Perhaps we’ll face each other again but there, where you left me, you’ll not meet me again. I’ve been in Berlin long enough to start reading Brecht for pleasure, although not in the original German. http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-tattered-cord-der-abgerissen-strick-translation-with-original-german/

My mind to me a kingdom is

My mind to me a kingdom is; Such perfect joy therein I find That it excels all other bliss Which God or nature hath assign’d. Though much I want that most would have, Yet still my mind forbids to crave. No princely port, nor wealthy store, No force to win a victory, No wily wit

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Call of the Wild

Subaru in the snow, a photo by RaeAllen on Flickr. Have you gazed on naked grandeur where there’s nothing else to gaze on, Set pieces and drop-curtain scenes galore, Big mountains heaved to heaven, which the blinding sunsets blazon, Black canyons where the rapids rip and roar? Have you swept the visioned valley with the

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A life lived later

The word That defines my life: Later. Mine has been A life that will be lived later. ~ Anurag Mathur

Lifetimes seldom fill a hundred years

I live far off in the wild Where moss and woods Are thick and plants perfumed I can see mountains rain or shine And never hear market noise I light a few leaves in my stove to heat tea To patch my robe I cut off a cloud Lifetimes seldom fill a hundred years Why

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The Man Watching

I can tell by the way the trees beat, after so many dull days, on my worried windowpanes that a storm is coming, and I hear the far-off fields say things I can’t bear without a friend, I can’t love without a sister The storm, the shifter of shapes, drives on across the woods and

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It Ain’t What You Do, It’s What It Does To You

I have not bummed across America with only a dollar to spare, one pair of busted Levi’s and a bowie knife. I have lived with thieves in Manchester. I have not padded through the Taj Mahal, barefoot, listening to the space between each footfall picking up and putting down its print against the marble floor.

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Childe Roland to the Dark Tower came.

My first thought was, he lied in every word, That hoary cripple, with malicious eye Askance to watch the working of his lie On mine, and mouth scarce able to afford Suppression of the glee that pursed and scored Its edge, at one more victim gained thereby. What else should he be set for, with

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